


The White Raven

by moonstoneclone



Series: Marvels of the Universe [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU Clint Barton, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Death, Depression, F/M, Holocaust, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, have I mentioned death yet?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-10-05 11:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20488097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstoneclone/pseuds/moonstoneclone
Summary: Hawkeye was sent to retrieve an 0-8-4 in 2014. And the rest, they say, is history.AU in which Clint Barton doesn't have a wife and kids.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Marvel/Disney nor do I own the rights to Clint Barton AKA Hawkeye. I do, however, deserve to own the rights to my original character, whose powers are loosely based off of the Phoenix Force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know Polish so I used Google Translate- let me know if it's wrong and I'll fix it
> 
> I'm super glad that Hawkeye is getting more attention now- it's sad that it took emotional pain and survivors guilt to make fans notice him. But from what I've gathered from my brief look into the comics, it's a major part of Clint's story.
> 
> In this story I tried to do a mixture of MCU Clint and Comic Clint. I hope it comes off as such.

_Early May, 1943 _

_Somewhere south of Bialystok, Poland _

Rain pelted off the cattle cars as hundreds of distressed and weary-stricken passengers awaited their final destination to Ukraine. Human excrement and quicklime covered the floors. It was unknown how long they have been traveling due to the many stops of the train to allow more precious cargos to pass, as a reminder of how little they were worth to their government. Many passengers had died standing or kneeling in this particular cargo hold due to overcrowding. The children seemed to have run out of tears to cry, and if there were still some with enough water in their systems, it was drowned out by the labored breathing and sounds of dry-heaving that seemed to echo in the wooden holding cell.

A woman stood amidst the bodies, seemingly present and absent at the same time. Mela had tear-tracks on her slim, dirty face, yet she smiled at an image no one else could see. A little girl with two puffs on each side of her head was dancing through the passengers on the train as if they weren’t there, twirling through a woman still holding onto her dead child’s hand. The little girl’s mother knelt down to shush her, telling her to be respectful in this somber place, and that the museum is no place to be misbehaving. Dejected, the girl took her mother’s hand, and both strolled out of the boxcar.

The cattle car shook along the tracks as Mela continued to watch more tourists enter the car, take a gander at her present situation, and walk back towards the rest of the Holocaust museum.

A man beside her whimpered and crumpled to the floor, never to move again. Luckily, his son will survive this place and be the few that escapes Treblinka II, and he will have a large family that will prosper until 2050.

The train stopped, jostling the woman from her omniscience. Her dull, jaded hazel eyes peered through a mass of dirty and matted brown hair as the boxcar doors slid open, revealing a German officer and a Polish interpreter.

“You are under the authority of the German Army. Anyone who owns gold and other valuables must hand them over. If it is found that anyone has kept any of these they will be shot on the spot. If anyone is ill, they should report to the hospital. That will be all.”

She and the remaining passengers were dragged from the car, revealing a transit station with only about twenty-five Nazis, and hundreds of Ukrainian guards milling about, guns pointed at them. There was blood everywhere. The entire platform was strewn with bodies, some dressed but most not. Their faces were distorted, their eyes open in horror. Tongues hung out, brains were smeared over the gravel and the bodies were twisted. 

They first separated the abominations: women and children one way, men the other. Mela watched as the old and sick where taken behind a shed labeled as a hospital. She heard the gunshots. She envied them. She waited in line with the rest of her group before she was flung in front of a bored-looking officer. He looked her up and down as if she was something to be chosen off a clothing rack and waved her towards the left. She and hundreds of other frail bodies were herded with whips towards a small building, where there were lines of men waiting to take her belongings.

They took her luggage, her clothes, her shoes. They pulled her gold crowning out. Even as she stood there, naked, none of the men in uniform gave her a second glance.

They were then herded towards a white building. A woman in front of her begged a guard for information. She dropped to the ground not long after.

The voices started as she sat in front of yet another soldier. There is another body next to the chair, their clouded eyes unblinking as the soldier yanked the woman’s hair back and began sawing at the ends. The soldier stopped as Mela gave a cry and grabbed her head in pain, whispering to herself.

He yanked her head back to find her speaking in a language he doesn’t understand. Then he hears English, and then his own language. She’s complaining about a broken window, and then about a stark man, and then reverts back to Polish. He watches as tears stream down her face and calls a guard to hold her. 

There’s a commotion the next station over. The soldier turns to find a deportee waving a grenade around, pin pulled. A brother-in-arms stupidly decides to shoot him, causing the degenerate to release the safety lever. Soldiers and deportees panic, racing towards the exit. The woman in front of him screams in agony, hands still clawing at her temple. She begins to emit a white light, and the soldier wonders if his family will be safe. He considers his life―

* * *

Mela is in the same place, but it’s wrong. It was the same death camp that she had been marched into, but tourists with cameras surrounded her instead of death and Nazis.

The sky was a magnificent blue. Sunrays warm her face and a light breeze tickles her bare skin.

As she entered the edge of the clearing, she saw a sign with a layout of the camp. It read: “Treblinka Extermination Camp”. Below it listed the features of the camp, as if it were a carnival attraction. She felt sick.

Mela was incapable of thinking, her senses numbed as she took in the railroad tracks, the rocks that replaced the barbed-wire fence, and the hundreds of stones with the names of cities engraved into them. She is a ghost walking amongst the markers, like a soul condemned to wander the grounds without hope of finding peace.

She didn’t know how long she had been wandering the grounds- an hour? A day? Either way, it was enough. She turned to make her escape from this haunted place.

She tripped over one of the pipes for the crematorium. 

Rage bubbled from within Mela as she remained on the ground, among the cemetery of ash that has long gone. She had read the sign – they burned everything to hide the atrocities that they committed. A horror that she was somehow able to escape from. 

White whips of light emitted from her hands and small rocks began to rise off the ground. The few tourists that were in the vicinity screamed in horror as some of the markers disintegrated before their eyes, and them not long after.

Mela didn’t hear them; anger thrummed through her veins and fury clouded her thoughts. Her now-short brown locks float around her head as she stands. Her hands clenched as her malnourished body attempts to buckle under her weight, her ragged nails releasing blood into her palms. She pushes off the ground and levitates in the air, the white light encircling her as she rose high above the monument dedicated to those who were murdered.

She lets out a violent scream that is filled with grief, emitting a wave of energy that burns trees on impact and obliterates the remains of the leveled camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out more about Treblinka here:
> 
> Tour of Treblinka https://youtu.be/PwXEmg4IXOw 
> 
> History of Treblinka https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/history-and-overview-of-treblinka
> 
> Wikipedia Overview https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treblinka_extermination_camp


	2. Chapter 2

_2014 _

_Triskelion, Washington D.C. _

A low-level agent rushes to his supervisor. “Sir, we just got a massive energy spike in Poland!”

The supervisor acknowledges. “I’ll send a strike team to check it out.” The agent watches in horror as his supervisor disintegrates before his very eyes and lets out a cry. He rushes to his cubicle and picks up the phone and rings the operator. “I’m calling in an 0-8-4! I repeat: there is an 0-8-4 in Poland! I need to speak to Director—”

The phone falls and lands in a pile of ash.

* * *

Clint trudges towards to elevator and wearily jabs at the correct button to Fury’s office, eyes never failing to take in every detail around him. He had just come from a debriefing about his mission in Cambodia and was immediately ushered towards the Director’s office.

He is absently watching the loading bays when he feels someone behind him. A cautious glance over his shoulder shows no one behind him, and he ignores the shiver that passes up his spine.

He knocks on the Director’s door and lets himself in without an invitation, unceremoniously falling onto one of the chairs in front of Fury’s desk. The two regard each other before the Director speaks.

“I need you to go to Poland.”

Clint gives a half-hearted chuckle. “I just got back from a months-worth of surveillance. I think I deserve at least a day off.”

Fury crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans back in his chair, glaring at the agent with his good eye. “I know, Barton. I wouldn’t be sending you unless the circumstances called for it. Rogers and Romanoff are busy with a different mission.”

“Why do you need a high-level agent? Why can’t you just send a strike team to check it out,” Clint scoffs.

“…because the teams that I had assembled before you have been turned to ash before even leaving this room.”

That got Clint’s attention. “It’s coming from Poland?”

Director Fury nods solemnly, distress quickly passing over his features. “All we have been able to figure out is that the 0-8-4 is in Treblinka, Poland and that the energy readings are off the charts,” he states, reaching for a pen and scribbling something on a notepad. "We're trying to get there before anyone else can," he says with a pointed look.

He rips out the paper, crumples it, and stands, Clint following. Fury walks him to the door and sees him out. “Leave immediately. You can sign out a quinjet in my name.”

In the elevator, Clint pulls out the crumpled paper in his jacket pocket. It reads:

“Take 0-8-4 and disappear. Trust no one.”

* * *

He disconnects the quinjet tracker over Warsaw and flies southeast towards the Holocaust site, making sure to stay hidden in the clouds. He itched for some action—the surveillance on the foreign diplomat was uneventful. He set the jet to autopilot and leaned back in his seat, scrolling through his phone (GPS off, of course). He watched enviously as his friends posted Spring getaways with loved ones and he wondered how Nat was doing. He hadn’t had contact with her outside of the few payphone exchanges that he had managed under the radar.

_ She’s probably having the time of her life harassing Rogers _ , he thought, smiling to himself. He missed his team.

His smile faded when he noticed that there was something wrong with the forest, or the lack thereof. The quinjet soared over miles of ash, all forms of life and vegetation gone. Only dust was left of houses and their inhabitants.

Alarms started blaring and lights flashed once before cutting off completely. The quinjet was dead.

In midair.

Clint cursed wildly as he ran to grab a parachute from the cargo hold, stumbling as the jet nose-dived towards the Earth. Making sure he grabbed his quiver and bow on the way, he opened the airlock and was sucked out of the plane. As soon as he employs his chute, he looks up to watch his ride quickly disintegrate into nothing.

He took it as a sign that he needed to get his steps in for the day.


	3. Chapter 3

She was trapped. She didn’t know how to get out.

_No. They deserve this. They let this horror happen to us._

But these were innocent people.

_They were bystanders._

But there was a man coming to save her. Or she was here to save him. It was both. He was at the entrance to the second camp, so it wouldn’t be long now. She’ll be free soon. Then she could save him.

_He has a weapon. He’s going to finish what the Nazis started. He’s in that organization that was infiltrated by Nazis._

But he doesn’t know that.

_But his Director did._

The others are coming. She needs to get out.

* * *

Clint followed the rail tracks that lead to one of the camps. Somehow, they had managed to survive. He wondered how he was still alive.

Then he saw the 0-8-4. He had known only one other time that an 0-8-4 was a human. A woman, possibly early thirties, hovered over the memorial. She had no clothes on, her hands at her sides, palms facing outwards. White trails of  _ something _ emitted from her body, and her eyes were shut. Clint shielded his eyes—it almost hurt to look at her.

By instinct he turned to find the nearest high object, only after that he remembered the woman had destroyed everything within miles of them.

Clint remained a safe distance away, watching her. When she didn’t react to his presence, he reached behind him for an arrow. When he couldn’t grab anything, he glanced over his shoulder in shock. His quiver was gone.

His hand felt lighter.

All that was left of his bow was dust.

Great.

It was then he felt a whisper in his ear; the presence from the elevator was back. He turned and again found nothing. Clint closed his eyes and waited. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he felt it grow closer. He heard the voice behind him, only a whisper in the breeze.

_ “Please help me! Get me out of here!” _

Clint’s eyes snapped open and stared at the glowing woman above the memorial. She hadn’t moved, but he  _ knew _ it was her speaking.

Well, guess he’s going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

He took off, sprinting towards the woman. It was at this moment that the woman’s eyes opened, glowing white. Her face contorted in anger as she screamed: “Murderer! Nazi scum!”

She began channeling energy blasts at him, some the size of boulders. Clint barreled out of the way, managing to avoid streaking white comets. Vaguely, he wondered why she didn’t just turn him to ash, as she could very easily do. He decided to not to push his luck and ducked under another blast, still moving towards the rock, also puzzling over the fact that she had called him a Nazi. Nazis weren’t around anymore; at least he hoped they weren’t. That would royally suck if they were still kickin’.

He regretted wishing for some action.

He had reached the monument without getting singed and began climbing. The woman, still screaming in anger, continued to shoot at him, white light erupting from her fingertips, which he could see were dirty, and her nails torn.

He zig-zagged across the monument to avoid the blasts, slipping a few times to avoid death by light ray. He could feel the heat on his face as one narrowly missed its target.

The rock began to crumble as soon as he reached the top. In a last-second decision he jumped, grabbing a hold of the woman’s waist, bringing her down with him. He braced for impact.

The landing knocked her out, her body limp as the white light dissipated. Clint rolled onto his back and groaned in pain, feeling slightly regretful about using the woman as his landing cushion. Slightly.

Then she began stirring, her eyebrows and nose scrunching together as if in disgust at the thought of waking. Clint held her down, his muscles tense.

Clint took in her unkempt appearance. She had a slim face, a straight nose, and thin lips that were cracked and bleeding. She had ash-brown hair that was matted, limp, and crudely chopped to her sloping shoulders. She was emaciated- Clint could see almost every bone in her body through her pallid and weather-beaten skin. Bruises littered her body and he felt an unexpected surge of anger towards whoever had done this to her. 

She awoke with a gasp, her pale pink lips parting slightly. Clint decided to ignore that observation. Then her eyes opened.

Hazel eyes met blue.

They continued to watch each other, afraid to break the moment. Realizing that he was still holding onto her, he quickly released her, helped her stand, and took off his jacket to give to her. She accepted his gift with a quiet nod, eyes not yet leaving his face.

Yet she was the one that broke the silence. “Przybywają; musimy wyjść.”

‘’Uhhh... what?” Yet even as he said this, he felt the translation being sent right into his mind: they are coming; we need to leave.

“How are you doing that? Who’s coming? No, stay out of my head,” he cut her off before she could speak again, pointing an accusing finger at her. He has had enough mind tricks to last a lifetime.

She seemed to sense this and glanced down, thinking. Coming to some conclusion, she faced him, gleefully saying “De Nazis are coming. We need to leave!”

He gaped at her. She was vastly different from the woman who was trying to kill him earlier. “What Nazis? The Nazis are gone.”

She shook her head quickly, her thick eyebrows scrunching together as she concentrates on her words. “Nazis are in your team. Dey come for us. You see.”

Before Clint could say anything, two quinjets appear above their heads, landing close by. The woman tugs on his arm to try to keep him in place, but he gently extracts himself, walking towards them. Both squadrons come out to meet him, their leaders in front.

"Stephens, Jamison," Clint greets both with a curt nod.

"Barton," Agent Jamison casually stops a few feet in front of the archer. He nods towards the woman wrapped Clint's jacket, "is that the 0-8-4?"

Silently, Clint nods, arms crossed in front of him. He eyed both men in front of him. He cleared his throat before speaking, glancing at his feet. "Are you my back-up?”

He glanced up in time to see the two agents look at each other quickly.

Stephens answered, albeit uneasy. "Actually, no," he continued, "if you don't mind handing the 0-8-4 over to us, we'll be on our way."

The Avenger declined. "That's okay, Director Fury ordered me to personally deliver her to the Triskelion."

Stephens was looking more uneasy by the minute. He glanced at Jamison before replying, "sir, Director Fury is dead."

Clint started at that. Fury? Dead? Impossible.

Stephens continued. "Secretary Pierce has ordered us to take it into custody. It's dangerous and needs to be handled."

Warning lights started going off in Clint's head. He chuckled. "Of course, we're all on the same team, right?" He gestures to the woman, who complies, a small snarl on her features. Jamison connects the binders on her hands while she cautiously watches. He grabs her arm and escorts her to his quinjet.

Clint calls after them. "You mind if I get a ride?"

Stephens interrupts him, gesturing towards his own jet. "You can jump on mine. We have plenty of room."

Clint follows the agent to the quintet. He feels something forming in his hand and looks down. His bow had reappeared in his hand. His quiver was on his back again. He steals a glance at the woman, who is watching him with a worried expression.

He heard her whisper in his head. "I'll save you from them."

Concerned, he watches as she is loaded into the quintet before entering his own, working through his thoughts. As he prepared to strap in with the rest of the squadron, he recalled the note Fury left him before he died and found it odd that someone had come to relieve him of his duty without calling beforehand. The woman said that there were Nazis in his "group"... could that mean SHIELD? Wouldn't SHIELD have found out about it? He wished he could speak to Nat.

He wiped a hand down his face. He needs a pot of coffee.

Agent Stephens sat down next to him. "So, what is she?"

Clint shrugs. "No idea. Another experiment gone wrong," he guesses, referencing the Harlem disaster from a few years back.

Stephens gives the archer a friendly shove. "You think that she'll join the Avengers one day?"

Clint rolls his eyes with a quick laugh. "To be honest, I think we'd be slowing her down."

He lets out a sigh and grows solemn, leaning forward onto his knees, hands clasped in front of him. "Is it true about Fury?"

Stephens nods. "Captain Rogers and Agent Romanov are also wanted fugitives now," he glances at Clint, "you happen to know their whereabouts by chance?"

Clint laughs again, looking at the other agent. "Captain America, the nation's golden boy? A criminal? You've got to be joking."

Stephens shakes his head, eyes watching Clint’s face closely. "He's withholding information about Fury's death. Many agents think he killed him."

Clint shakes his head in disbelief. "That can't be right; Fury was a difficult man, but the two respected each other. Someone has to be setting him up." He looks at Stephens expectantly. "Why didn't anyone call me to tell me you were coming?"

The air became tense as he waited for Stephens to respond. 

He shrugged and glanced at his men. “Must’ve slipped someone’s mind. Fury said to go off grid, right?”

Bingo. “Interesting, Fury never told me that.”

A moment of silence. Clint waited for someone to make the first move.

He watched Stephens go for his gun before an explosion was heard from outside. Everyone was knocked off balance, Clint being thrown towards the ramp, his bow thrown to the opposite wall. He grabbed a hold of the netting attached to the walls and held on as the pilot struggled to balance out the aircraft.

And then she was there. It was like a glitch in reality. Clint stared as space folded in on itself, and then reformed into her. She was still in his jacket and handcuffs.

He had never been happier to see a woman.

She held up her bound hands. Stephens aimed his gun.

The space around the enemy warped. And then they were gone.

Clint ran towards the cockpit and set the jet to autopilot and turned off the tracker, adrenaline still racing through his veins. 

The woman appeared next to him, binders gone. He grabbed her arms and gave her a once-over. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Do you believe me now?”

He dumbly nodded, his hands ran up and down her arms in comfort. Whether it was for her sake or his own, he wasn’t sure. She watches him expectantly, her answer on the tip of her tongue.

Hawkeye returns his focus to the controls, turning off their tracker, setting the controls to manual flight, flicking a few switches for “just in case” measures. He planned their route, making it as erratic as possible in case someone was tracking them and to give him enough time to figure out what to do next with his 0-8-4. It was unnerving the way she watched him, as if she knew something he didn’t. He had no idea what she was capable of; she just made a whole squadron of agents disappear without a hint of effort. The question formed in his head, one he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to.

“Where did they go?”

“Away.”


	4. Chapter 4

They had safely landed in a town not far from Bialystok, where they had found a small inn that was willing to let them stay the night. The innkeeper’s wife was kind enough to donate some of her old clothes for his partner and prepared a hardy meal at the sight of the emaciated woman.

Mela had wolfed down the food, graciously thanking them for their hospitality between forkfuls. She came up with a story about running away from an abusive household, and Clint had found her on the side of the road. She knew Clint couldn’t speak Polish, so she translated everything for him as best she could. He seemed grateful.

As she bathed later that night, she could hear him shuffling about in the shared bedroom, looking out each window and moving furniture. She was a little unsure about a man and woman sharing a room, but she trusted him, no matter how unconventional.

She poured more bath salts into the tub and warmed the water, sinking gratefully into the tub. And then she began scrubbing.

The water was lucid and brown by the time she had finished. She avoided thinking about how many days-worth of dirt and grime she had removed. They had shut off the water in the ghetto about a month before they began deporting them. It was almost unbelievable that she was being led to her death in Treblinka a few hours ago. Mela was surprised how calm she felt about it. She felt the dark energy within her stir, and she avoided thinking about it more as she stood and dried off, dressing in the clothes set aside for her by the wife.

Clint sat on the edge of his twin bed. He stifled a laugh when the woman appeared from the bathroom wearing an oversized Mickey-Mouse shirt and cloth Bermuda shorts. She had hair rollers in, and a fair amount of baby oil was applied to her face.

She looked offended but otherwise ignored his amused stare. She sat at the vanity and wiped the excess oil off her face with a tissue and set it aside.

“What are you doing,” Clint questioned, watching her odd nightly routine.

She stopped mid-stroke and looked at him through the mirror. “Rationing,” she simply states. She finishes wiping the rest off before turning around in her seat.

“Rationing? We aren’t at war. Not publicly, at least.”

Mela stares at him. She whispers, “how much time have I lost, Clint?”

He gawks at her. “It’s 2014—how do you know my name? We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet!”

“I know things," she sighs impatiently as she struggles through her English, “my name Mela Nowak, and I am from Bialystok. I am survivor of murder of millions in second world war.”

Clint mutters under his breath. “You don’t happen to know Captain America, do you?” He sighs and runs a hand through his ruffled hair. Mela thinks he’s taking it pretty well, all things considered. Her, on the other hand, not so much.

She had lost 71 years. Or, she should have been dead for 71 years. Neither is much comfort. The lights flickered slightly as she tried to regain control over her emotions, the darkness in her stirring yet again.

“Mela, hey,” he comforted her, moving from his bed to sit next to her at the vanity. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Everything is going to be just fine, I promise.” He continued. “For now, we just need to lay low for a little while; I think you may be right about people coming after us.”

Mela released a deep breath, and the lights stopped flickering. Clint waited a few moments before awkwardly patting her on the back. He coughed. “Well, let’s get some sleep for the night. We should leave at dawn for New York.”

She turned to him, unsure. “Is it safe?”

He gives a half-hearted snort in response. “Safer than Washington and California. Sweet dreams,” he finished, heading for the light switch.

Mela quickly stood. “No!”

He stopped.

“We leave light on?”

Sensing her uneasiness, Clint complied, closing the curtains and trudging back towards his bed. He didn’t like the thought of revealing their location to potential threats, but the desperation in her voice and eyes had stopped him. He felt a strong urge to protect her, fully aware that she was capable of doing that herself. He found it odd that he completely trusted her story, knowing so little about her. He reassured himself this was because of all the odd things that had happened to him within the last six years. He wondered how destructive her powers were.

He turned towards her, finding her already in bed, asleep.

He could find out more tomorrow.

* * *

It wasn’t even dawn when Mela jolts awake, eyes frantically searching for something. She was unsure of what.

The light was off, and she noticed, with a pang of guilt, that the bulb had shattered, an action she had most likely caused. Mela cupped her hands together and created a small source of white light. It floated towards the ceiling, filling the room with a soft glow.

Hawkeye was still asleep, quietly snoring into his pillow. His clothes from yesterday were still on, sans jacket, and his shoes were carelessly thrown into the middle of the room. His hearing aids were placed on the bedside table within arm’s reach.

She dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom. She washed her face with the gentle cleanser she had found under the sink vanity, slowly going over the hollows of her cheekbones, her sore lips, and her sunken eyes. Mela opted for her old makeup routine: minimal brown eyeshadow, light rouge on the cheeks, and a dark red lip. She took care covering the dark circles, and the bruises that were gradually fading.

She pulled the rollers out of her hair, twisting locks under a headband and secured it. It was the best way to avoid seeing what was left of her beautiful hair.

She grabbed the white turtleneck and blue jeans that the innkeeper’s wife and generously gave her, tucking in the shirt and cinching the pants with a belt in hopes that they won’t fall when she moves.

Clint was still asleep, this time sprawled across his bed with an arm over his eyes. Afraid of startling him, Mela slowly sat next to him and waved a hand over his face. She gently guided his mind to consciousness, inputting positive thoughts as he began to stir. He sighed peacefully before opening his eyes, slowly focusing on her, a soft smile on his sleepy face.

His dreamy look turned to confusion and annoyance at the realization that she had been in his head and abruptly sat up, causing her to stand and back away.

He pointed an accusing finger at her. “What did I say about getting in my head?”

“Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t. You mind manipulators are all the same.”

She backed into the nearest corner as he got up and stiffly walked to the bathroom, slamming the door shut. She remained frozen as he heard him pacing behind the closed door, muttering to himself.

Her heart raced when he stopped mid-pace, and the white light that was illuminating the room grew to an almost blinding light. In her peripheral she saw pieces of the wall begin to waver as its structure began to dissolve. The monster was attempting to emerge again, just like it had in Treblinka.

The bathroom door opened.

Clint walked out, preparing to apologize, and was immediately forced to shield his eyes from the light. His gaze flickered to Mela who was hunched in the far corner behind the vanity, the walls surrounding her warping. She was watching him fearfully, arms in front of her in an attempt to create more distance between them. Her eyes were once again glowing and escaped strands of hair were floating around her.

Their bedroom door opened to reveal the innkeeper and his wife, their curiosity shaping into horror at the scene before them. Hawkeye turned and quickly shooed them off before facing Mela again, carefully reaching a hand out.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he began, “I’m not here to hurt you.” He inched towards her, one hand still shielding his eyes from the light threatening to burn his retinas. She whimpered as he got nearer, resulting in him stopping his movements. The wall integrity was so poor Clint could see out into the small town. Pedestrians had stopped in the street. He needed to act quickly to avoid drawing any more attention to them. He squatted on the ground, his hand still stretched out towards her.

“I know I scared you by yelling and making a scene like that. I—Lord, I’m not good with words—I just wanted to apologize for my shitty behavior. It was a mistake on my part, and I promise that I will never do that again.”

As he spoke, the walls began to reform and harden, and the ball of light dimmed enough that he could reach out to her with both hands.

“I know we haven’t spent much time together, so we don’t quite know what is going on in each other’s lives, and you don’t have any reason to trust me. I promise as soon as we leave, I’ll tell you all about me.”

He glanced back towards the bedroom door, “but we have to leave now; we can grab food along the way.”

Mela timidly reached out to place her hand in his, a small gasp escaping her when she did so, seemingly surprising herself with her own actions.

They stayed in this moment, considering the trust that they had placed in each other. Clint felt a warmth spread over him as Mela gave a quick nod to acknowledge that she was ready, eyes back to their beautiful hazel. He helped her stand, giving her small words of assurance before returning to the bathroom.

Mela packed his bags as he got ready, embarrassed by her outburst. She mentally scolded herself for fearing a man who had been kind to her ever since he saved her from herself.

She placed his bag by the door and put on her donated bright purple stompers. She thought the fashion today was a little odd, but she could get used to it.

Clint exited the bathroom again, clean-shaven and more alert.

He put a hand up when she began to apologize. “It’s okay, Mela. You’ve been through a lot. Nice kicks, by the way,” he added, glancing down at her sneakers. He went to grab his duffel bag but a timid hand stopped him. He watched as the light that she had created flew down to her, molding into a pair of sunglasses. For added measure, she made the lenses purple to match her shoes.

Mela handed them to him. “These block light I make. A arrow-man needs to see.”

Clint gratefully takes them, immediately putting them on. “Thank you.”

They exit the room together and Clint pays for their stay, and money to fix any damages. The innkeeper silently accepts the payment, glaring at Mela until the two leave. The wife was nowhere to be found.

Mela is silent as the two make their way to the outskirts of town towards the hidden quinjet, embarrassment still etched into her features.

“My name is Clint Barton,” Clint starts, trying to distract her, “I was born in Iowa. That’s in America. I used to be in a circus, I learned archery when I was there. I used to have a brother, but he’s gone now—his name was Barney. I used to be a criminal, you know, before I joined SHIELD,” he rambled, talking about anything and everything, ranging from his favorite color to the first car he ever drove.

She listened, only able to understand a few words and phrases, but she enjoyed his stories nonetheless. He was mesmerizing to watch, the way he spoke with his hands, the faces he made to emphasize a point, his relaxed body language… it was beautiful. She wanted him to tell her more stories.

She was too busy daydreaming to realize he had stopped and was waiting for her to respond.

“…Mela.”

“Uh, yes?”

“Can you understand me?”

She shook her head and concentrated on forming her sentence. “No speak English. I…” she didn’t know the words, so she tapped her head desperately, trying to get the point across.

“You use your head?”

“No, eh,” she pointed from her head to his, trying to symbolize a connection between them.

Clint understood. “You use my mind to translate everything.”

She nodded, grimacing at the way his eyes hardened. He let out a long sigh, seeming to weigh the odds.

“Okay, since we are going to be together for a while, I will let you read my mind, but only,” he emphasized, “to communicate with each other.”

When she didn’t understand, he mimicked her gesture, albeit reluctantly. He felt her slip into his mind to translate what he had said. Her presence was similar to the feeling of seeing the break of dawn, or hearing an infant laugh for the first time. She was like tasting freedom for the first time.

Needless to say, it was better than what happened two years ago.

“So,” she began, “you like purple?”

He let out a breathy laugh, his body posture relaxing a little. “Yeah.”

And so she began her story.

“My name Mela Nowak. Born in one thousand-nine hundred-ten. _Nie_. Nineteen-ten. In Poland. I am…was secretary and musician,” she mimicked playing a piano.

“Wow,” Clint whistled. “When did you get your powers?”

“I had power my whole life. I was caught hiding Jews in my house because I used powers to move them to safe place.”

Amazed, he glanced at this woman whose eyes glinted as she told her story, chin tilted upwards in defiance of those who had ruined her home. And to her, that was only yesterday.

“I was scared, but I knew it is right thing to do. They did nothing wrong but live. To Nazis, unacceptable.” Her voice dripped with malice, gesturing angrily. “To them, all Jews must die. I would not have that.”

They had reached the quinjet and entered the platform, heading for the cockpit. She waited until they had taken off before continuing. “They moved me into ghetto. Shot Jews. I stayed in ghetto for four months, then, they move us to Treblinka.”

Tears began to build up as she remembered, and Clint reached over the controls to place a reassuring hand on her arm. “You don’t have to speak anymore if you don’t want to,” he whispered, “you’ve told me plenty.”

A tear strayed from her eye and she silently nodded, placing a hand over his. Suddenly she froze, grip tightening on his hand. Clint quickly looked over to find her eyes glowing white.

“Mela,” he called out cautiously.

“Nazis know we leave Poland. They are tracking gamma radiation.” Her eyes snapped to his. Her grip lessened as her eyes faded to their natural hazel. She snatched her hand away when she noticed Clint gawking at her. “Sorry.”

He returned his hand back to the controls. “So, what are your powers again?”

“From what I know, I can control things,” she struggles to explain, “I do not know much about science and space. I sang and played in a bar at night. I can turn wood into gold. I can teleport and, apparently, time travel,” she added with a small quirk of her mouth. “And I know things and see things from past and future,” she added.

Clint’s jaw was completed unhinged. He didn’t believe in God, or even Demi-Gods, even if one was on his team, but from what he was hearing, it sounded like she could be one.

“So, uh, how do you control all that?”

She awkwardly giggled in response. “I cannot control yet, as you see. I work on it for 34 years but sometimes it take over. Voices get too much.”

“Voices?”

“I read minds,” she reminded him, “I hear all. I know all, even when I not want to know.”

Clint nodded silently as she explained her abilities, all the while setting coordinates for New York, frequently checking the radar for any hostiles. He missed Nat—she would know what to do.

“Okay, since you told me that they are tracking you, we should probably find a way to hide you from their radar. I know a guy in New York that can help us with that. He’s safe,” he added, glancing at her as she nodded timidly. “It’ll be alright. Go get some sleep; we have a few more hours before we land.”

* * *

The sun was setting when Clint landed the quinjet outside of Avengers Tower. After switching everything off he stretched, groaning when his joints cracked in response. His shoulders and neck ached from the stress of flying for nine hours straight. While massaging his shoulders, he swiveled in his seat to check on Mela. She slept the whole flight curled in a chair next to one of the monitors; she seemed at peace, and his heart broke at the thought of waking her up.

From the window of the cockpit he saw Stark strolling out onto the hanger, a toolbelt slung across his hips and a confused expression etched into his sweaty face.

Sighing, Clint stood and moved towards Mela, still asleep in that uncomfortable position. Kneeling, he gently shook her shoulder, “Mela, we’re h—”

Her haunted eyes snapped open, glowing, her body immediately stiffening. The computer monitors surrounding them began to glitch as she began hyperventilating. Clint cupped her face and stared into her eyes. “Mela, it’s me, Clint. You’re safe. You’re not in Poland anymore, you’re in New York. I’m going to need you to breathe with me, Sweetheart. Deep breath in… that’s good. Now out.”

Mela copied his breathing, albeit poorly at first, but eventually the computer monitors stopped flashing as she calmed. His comforting smile and his words melted the tension in her shoulders. She sat up, searching his face for anger, annoyance…hatred.

But she only saw concern in his eyes.

They decided the ramp together, Clint’s arm comfortingly wrapped around her thin shoulders.

“Did you run out of coffee at home?” Tony stood a few feet from the quinjet, cleaning his hands on a dirty rag. He eyed the woman while fiddling with the towel, “and why didn’t you give any to your friend?”

Calloused hands brushed against each other and Tony glanced down, surprised. He looked around him for his rag.

“Tony, do you remember that 0-8-4 that you were illegally reading about the other day?”

He glanced at the two. “The one that kept disappearing people?” His eyes landed on Mela, almost instantly making the connection. He wiped a grimy hand over his face. “Right. Well, let’s head down to the lab—JARVIS”, he called, “clean up a little down there, will ya? We have a new project.”

Mela had no idea what the bearded man was rattling about as they moved further into the tower. It began as possible energy sources, changed to lifestyle choices, and finally moved onto planning a Gala. It didn’t matter to her. What did was the vast number of _things_ that this man had.

This man had floors upon floors of polished furniture and elegant timepieces. She swore she saw a couple Michelangelo paintings through the glassed-in elevator as they continued towards his lab.

She was definitely not in the 40s anymore.

Clint’s arm was still securely wrapped around her, a comfort she was grateful for. Mela could feel when he spoke, a deep vibration in his chest that moved through her, giving her something to focus on rather than the waterfall, or the marble floors that greeted them when they stepped off the elevator.

When they entered the lab, he gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze before removing himself, leaving her cold and aching for his warmth.

Mela stood before Tony Stark and couldn’t help but read his mind.

Tony watched the tear fall onto her cheek. “I know I am a sight to behold, but I think this is a first that someone has cried,” he quipped, causing Clint to shake his head in exasperation.

His smirk turned into a frown when she spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “You think you have nothing, but one day you realize you had everything you ever wanted.” She didn’t speak about the nightmares.

Tony stood with his hands on his hips, turning to Clint. “So, she also reads minds and tells futures.” He instinctually scratched his head, “I’m getting a Xavier vibe—why didn’t you take her there, by the way?”

“Because I don’t know them, Tony. And with what they’re going through, we don’t need the Brotherhood to come after her too—”

“Too? Who’s after her?”

“She says Nazis.”

Tony gazed at Mela before glancing at the ground. “HYDRA.”

Clint’s voiced dropped to a murmur “…what?”

“HYDRA. The cult that Cap was trying to destroy. They’re back, apparently never left. That’s why they’re on the run,” he states, referencing Rogers and Widow. “HYDRA found out they knew and told the world that they’re a part of Fury’s death.”

“She also said that they were tracking radiation to find her.”

Tony’s eyes widened and he jumped back, calling his suit to him and one for Clint.

“Ow! Stark, what—”

“If she’s emitting radiation, we can’t be around her without protection. Who knows how much she’s emitting? JARVIS, check their levels”

“BARTON: 3.1 MILLISIEVERTS. SUBJECT: 4 SIEVERTS."

Clint spoke. “So that’s bad, right?”

“Clint, you’re exposed to that much in a year. Yeah, it’s bad.”

The two turned to the woman who is staring back at them, anger contorting her features. Her hand began glowing white as she held it out towards Tony. “Let Clint go.”

Tony grunted in pain and collapsed onto his knees as his suit began to crush him, her eyes boring into him as she constricted his airway.

Clint moved towards her, removing his helmet. “Mela, it’s okay. I’m safe.”

She stopped immediately. “Clint… what is going on? What is that thing?”

He reassured her. “Tony just gave this to me so I can be around you. You are releasing radiation that is dangerous for us to be around,” he frantically looked back at Tony, “you need to let him go, Mela. He’s trying to help you.”

Tony gasped for air as his suit reverted back to its normal shape, his mind already constructing ways to immobilize her in the future if she ever becomes a threat.

He wheezed. “Right. Now I’m getting Jean Grey vibes,” he nonchalantly moved about. “Tell me why you didn’t send her there again?”

“Tony--”

“No. My turn. You’ve seen what she can do. I’ve only witness a fraction of what she’s capable of and I know that she’s a possible extinction-level threat. What were you _ thinking _, Clint?”

Mela held her arms out as he took measurements. He typed on a computer for a while, pressed send, and turned back towards them. “This is dangerous and you know it.”

“Fury gave me orders before he... Clearly it’s better that she’s with us than with HYDRA.”

Mela watched as the machine next to Tony came to life, methodically weaving fibers to make what she guessed to be her suit.

The two men stood apart from her, watching her closely. “Barton, you should go get checked out for radiation poisoning. I’ll keep an eye on her here.”

“I don’t know if she’ll like that.”

“You know I can't let her leave. ”

Clint releases a deep breath, nodding to Tony. He strides over to Mela. Their eyes meet and Clint’s breath catches. He doesn’t know why. He awkwardly clears his throat. “I, uh, need to go see a medic for a few minutes so they can make sure I’m okay after spending so much time with you. I’m going to leave you with Tony, okay?”

Mela glanced at the ground. “I understand, but,” she grasped onto his arm, “be careful.”

Clint laughed as he removed himself from her, striding towards the exit after removing his armor. “I’m always careful.”

She doubted that.

There was a moment of silence as Mela and Tony regarded each other.

“I’m sorry for almost killing you.”

Tony snorts, relaxing. “No hard feelings here. Happens all the time.”

He places a helmet in front of her. “So how do you feel about helmet hair?”

* * *

Clint ordered another sub to-go before stepping back onto the elevator to return to the lab. The process took longer than he had hoped, filling out paperwork and getting a couple scans done (he was  _ FINE _ ). He had stopped by the sandwich shop located inside the tower, stuffing himself full of Philly Cheese sandwiches and chips. His mama would be so proud.

He did not expect a warzone when he returned. The lab was partially destroyed when he arrived, kicking him into action. He dropped behind what used to be a cabinet and listened for any potential threats coming his way, wishing he could get up high.

Then he heard Tony laughing.

Clint peeked out from where he was to find Tony, without his suit, drink in hand, hysterically laughing behind radiation-proof glass. Targets were set behind him, two of them currently on fire, and there was a spot on the wall where one appeared to be missing altogether.

Mela stood with her back to Clint, facing the targets. She was wearing a white bodysuit, and wore gloves and a helmet. She unsteadily rose into the air, fists glowing as she tried to take aim. The energy blast rose from her core and out of her fingertips, obliterating the rest of the targets in one fell swoop. Mela swore in Polish, sweeping a hand towards the wall and recreating the targets from the ashes.

When she finally felt his presence she landed, practically skipping to him. With a pang, he realized he couldn’t see her eyes anymore, as the helmet covered her face and only his reflection peered back at him. 

“Are you done drooling, Barton, or can we keep training?”

Clint points towards the helmet. “I’m getting some serious Tron Legacy vibes. Is this a sky-diving helmet?”

Tony gestures to the helmet with his drink. “She has to be completely covered for us to be safe. From the preliminary report, it seems she may be able to control molecules. I won’t know much more until JARVIS has finished running data. I was trying to come up with a good name for her, so get this,” he paused for dramatic effect, “White Atom.”

Clint grimaced while Mela glanced at him, confused, “Clint, I do not get.”

“Me neither.”

* * *

Mela sat on the edge of the exam table in her gown, staring out the big picture window. Clint sat in a chair in the corner, insisting on being there. Nurses and Physicians in lead-lined suits bustled in, speaking quickly to each other as they started with the physical exam.

A feeling began tugging at her when they started an IV to give her fluids.

She stopped the bullet mere inches before it hit her. The medical staff quickly took cover, forcing her behind the now-overturned exam table.

Clint was already out the door looking for his target, anger barely concealed as he searched the skylines for potential locations that the shooter could have come from. Even in his panic, he had to admit that the shooter was a great marksman, as the closest building was almost 200 meters away.

When he returned to the lab empty-handed, Mela was already back in her suit, still attached to the IV. She seemed unfazed by the event, which Clint found concerning. He gently grasped her shoulders and peered into her helmet, wishing he could see her eyes. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I am okay.”

Her response didn’t comfort him. “We have to leave New York City. It’s not safe for us here anymore.”

“It will not be safe for us anywhere if your friends do not complete their mission.”

“Mela, you’re starting to scare me. What are you talking about?” God, he wished he could see her face properly.

“SHIELD is falling. Your friends are making sure of it.”


	5. Chapter 5

It was everywhere on the news. Clips of helicarriers crashing into the Triskelion were shown on repeat. Agent identities and aliases were thrown into the spotlight. Everyone knew SHIELD’s secrets. Everyone knew about him.

They could find out about her.

Tony took this opportunity to create a HYDRA file and began locating possible bases and factories for the team to take down.

After a few hours Mela's finalized suit was packed and their bags stuffed into an unmarked car, headed north towards the countryside. Mela gazed out the window as the skyscrapers became neighborhoods which became grazing fields, halfheartedly listening to her partner's voice as he sang along to songs she can't recognize. In lieu of the multitude of buttons and triggers that surrounded her on every side, she refrained from sleeping in fear that she could activate something on accident. She found out the hard way with the AC, much to Clint's amusement. Instead, she practiced focusing on reading minds, like she had done while in the ghettos. She shook her head, clearing that thought. 

She reached outwards towards a farm they were passing by. The wife was thinking about making some creamed corn for dinner, and she wondered how her son in the army was faring. Clint was thinking about One Direction. She wasn't sure which one he was referring to. Realizing what she'd done, Mela chastised herself for invading his privacy. Again.

She wished he didn't think so  _ loud _ .

"Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Someone is following us."

They were in the middle of upstate New York and the sunset was disappearing over the horizon. There wasn't a single life form within miles of them. But the agent was on his way.

And moving fast.

Clint nodded silently, pressing on the gas pedal, a troubled expression clouding his handsome features. How was he supposed to keep her safe when he doesn't know what's after them? He prayed that this compound Stark was raving about is as good as he says. He had a feeling they will need it.

He was aware that she had entered his mind, but was grateful when she seemed to realize her fault and severed their connection. 

“Mela, you had told me that sometimes things get too much for you. Would you consider seeing a therapist? I think it could help you deal with your powers.”

Everything seemed to click in place, like a puzzle that she couldn’t quite figure out until now. Mela had seen so many realities in her short lifetime, but this decision determines her outcome in all of them. It was the fixed point she couldn’t see. If she said no, it could lead to the Sentinel Program reboot. But if she chose to work with  _ her _ , it could lead to—

The sound of crunching metal throws her from her thoughts. Clint slams on the breaks in hopes of throwing their assailant, but a metal hook sinks into the roof.

Mela helplessly watches as Clint tries to defend them both as the man above continues to attack from above. She should do something. Yet Mela remains huddled in the passenger's seat.

_ Why is she hesitating? _

She removed two squads of HYDRA agents with ease, so why is the thought of taking down one man so difficult for her?

He’s just a normal human being with an uncanny ability to shoot an object with lethal accuracy—

_ Oh. _

“Mela, get out of— Ah!” Clint grasps his shoulder where the bullet was embedded.

Agent Poindexter watches the passenger side disintegrate onto the road. The target rises from the car, her eyes glowing.

He unloads a clip on her. They disintegrate before they near the white light that is sloughing off her body. 

His target grabs him by the throat and soars above the trees. He feels frozen, his body failing to defend itself, allowing itself to be strangled. He sees his fear in the reflection of her helmet.

Mela glares at the man in her grasp. He almost killed Clint.

She is going to kill him.

Her grip tightens on his neck when his body starts involuntarily convulsing in a last attempt to breathe. His skin falls off as the white beams devour him, hungrily licking at his body.

He was fading fast.

“Mela, let him go!”

The light surrounds both her and her victim. The car has since been turned to ash. Clint's glasses gleam in the blinding light as he continues pleading.

An excruciating pain creeps up his arms, and Clint cries out, crashing onto his knees and holding his arms to his chest.

Mela’s eyes snap to her savior. Blisters have broken out across his face and arms, some already open and bleeding. His skin is red and swollen. She’s hurting Clint.

She drops the agent and hurries to him, white light vanishing and she collapses next to him, tears forming in her eyes. At her touch his body gives up, the pain was too much for him to handle. She feels him go limp in her arms and she lets out a sob, bringing her head down to his. One of her tears trails down his cheek as she rocks back and forth with him in her arms. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

_ Oh God, what have I done? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long and this is so short  
hopefully I'll have time during my winter break to continue writing


End file.
